Split Second
by labezfodaze
Summary: In the post- 'Granite State' pre- 'Felina' time frame. Walt has just turned himself into the DEA via telephone, and the police are on his tail. How will he handle under pressure with an extremely minimal amount of time to plan his next move?
1. Chapter 1

Wide-eyed and scared for his life, the bartender froze in the harsh glares of the northern New Hampshire town's entire police force.

"Sir," barked the police chief, not lowering the barrel of his pistol as he offered a flash of his badge, "We need your immediate cooperation. An alert has been sent throughout the state that Walter White contacted the DEA very recently by phone to give himself up. That phone call was traced to a phone on your property."

Unable to answer, the bartender glossily eyed the sea of weapons and stern faces around him. In the distance, the treetops began to thrash about in the wake of an approaching helicopter. He cleared his throat-

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"So you're telling me you haven't seen anyone around here today who could have possibly been Walter White?" He nudged his pistol into the side of the man's face, "It doesn't seem to me like many people wander into this shithole, so you're going to tell me now- in detail- about every customer you have had today."

The bartender's face dropped, defeated by the insult. "Well, there was a man in here about half an hour ago.."

Two more police cruisers, sirens blaring, whipped into the snowy parking lot.

"He didn't look much like the man on the news," he paused to remember the man he had just come in contact with and made a strong effort to remember his features. "Just the typical New Hampshire man in winter. Beard, flannel, jacket.

"Was the man acting suspicious in any way?"

"No," he shook his head still in shock, "He came in, quietly sat at the bar, like any sad sucker who comes into this place."

"Did he ask for a drink?" the police chief prodded.

"He was a little hard to convince," the bartender appeared deep in thought and pointed to the almost untouched glass of whiskey the man had left behind. "He was sitting right here. He seemed to have just made a few very discouraging phone calls. Usually happens here. Guys come in with wife troubles, work troubles, then come over here and I make my money off selling them booze."

A few of the newcomers made their way over to the mentioned pay phone to check the phone number assigned to it, taking pictures and writing down notes for evidence. "Hey, this phone has the number he called from!"

"Excellent," he lowered his pistol and slipped his badge back into his jacket. "Sir, if you'd be willing to fully cooperate with me, I won't need to put you in cuffs. Unfortunately, I am going to take you down to the station for further interrogation as we search the premise for more evidence."

While being dragged out of his own bar, the bartender watched in utter disbelief as more and more police officers from the surrounding towns burst in through the door with flashlights and guns, searching for the countries most wanted criminal.

Meanwhile, about 6 miles away, Walter hurriedly scurried around his tiny makeshift cabin, grabbing everything he could to bring with him in what seemed like his only chance to get out of the situation. He had made sure to sprint only in tire tracks in the snow leading away from the bar to avoid leaving an obvious trail. The last supply run, he had asked for boots two times his size to stuff his feet into, wearing the three pairs of heavy wool socks he requested in order to throw off anyone who found his footprints and tried to compare them to the shoe size given in his physical description on the news. His heart rattling against his chest, and his lungs shuddering and quivering within his ribcage, he frantically ripped all of the pictures of him from the newspapers off of his wall and threw them into the woodstove.

In the distance, he heard the rumble of an engine and the crunching of snow under the truck's slow-churning wheels. It was time.


	2. Chapter 2

Walter White creaked open the door of the cramped cabin he had been slowly driving himself insane inside of for months. He nodded to the man who brought him supplies once a month and waved for him to come inside.

Hearing the man unload the truck, Walt swiftly retrieved the hunting rifle hidden under the sink, pausing for a moment to cough up some vile phlegm from his dying lungs. He panicked for a moment, wondering if he was about to make the right decision, but when he began to think about what little time he had left to live he nodded to himself and made his way to the door.

"So, Mr. Lambert," the smuggler began, "You have gotten yourself into some deep shit. You are on your own after thi-"

The shot echoed throughout the trees surrounding the prison Walt had begrudgingly grown accustomed to over the course of the last few months. As the man's body dropped to the ground, he knew he was working on borrowed time.

There was no time to hide the body, for he knew the feds were already swarming around the area looking for him. The hardest part would be getting out of town, and after that he could probably maneuver his way across the country inconspicuously with his full beard, different hats and sunglasses carefully masking his features.

"Shit. I guess this is it."

Strapping a hat around his head and throwing on his parka, Walt began to pack what remained of his money into the tank of the oil truck. Over the course of the last month, he had gone to work transporting his stacks of cash from the cumbersome black barrel it had been traveling along with him in to the cases that his Ensure and other supplies had been delivered to him in over the course of his stay here. When he ran out of boxes, he would make midnight runs to town in fits of madness from being in complete isolation to steal cardboard from recycling bins.

After taking many needed breaks from the painstaking task of repetitive lifting, Walt had loaded everything necessary into the truck. He tossed the rifle into the cab of the still-running truck, and hopped into the drivers seat. It was all or nothing now.

Luckily, the truck had a GPS already inside of it. He knew it would be a bad idea to set it to lead him directly to the place he and Jesse had agreed to meet if they ever needed to. It would need to be done in segments. Hell, he didn't even know if Jesse was alive or especially if he wanted to see him. He didn't know anything about his family except for the skeletal updates he received monthly from his supply runner.

Deep down in the darkest most pathetic part of himself, Walt hoped that Jesse even remembered the plan they touched upon just once. Maybe he was just strung out or fucked up and never thought about it again.

Behind the wheel of his only hope to ever see anyone he loved again, Mr. White carefully made his way through the fence and onto the unpaved New Hampshire street- if you could even call it that.

He began to weep to himself, more alone than he'd ever felt.

"What if I don't make it?"

The thought of crying into his pillow every night over his memories of Jesse and the prospect that he might have got him killed made things progressively worse as he managed to slink out of town without any issue.

Walter felt numb but unstoppable, and had no idea what he would do if he survived to the end of his trip only to realize that Jesse had never even thought about him again. He knew they left on bad terms, horrible terms. Walt knew he had been evil. What happened to love though? Did he deserve love? Probably not.

A few towns south, Mr. Lambert got out of his truck at a gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes.

It was all or nothing now. Nothing mattered.


End file.
